Whispers From The Abyss (15 page)

Brian Sloane couldn't believe what he was seeing. He rubbed his eyes, and read it again:

Aries.

March 21 - April 20.

This will be the dawning of a new age, and the future you have been dreaming of is nigh.

At long last the stars are right, and the sacrifices you make now will ensure that what you have been waiting for will come to pass.

Sloane read it through a third time - just to make sure. There was no doubt about it - the return of the Great Old Ones had been proclaimed, proclaimed in a tabloid newspaper's horoscope column.

*     *     *

Gathered in an ancient stone circle, Sloane addressed the scarlet robed cultists.

“Brethren the time is upon us. The long awaited return of the Great Old Ones is nigh. Tonight we Disciples shall perform the ceremony that shall herald Their advent.

“We shall speak the words of the rites of Alhazred and make the Red Offering. And They shall return to claim what is rightfully Theirs.

“The Earth will shake and mountains shall crumble, cities will be crushed, and the oceans shall boil. It shall be glorious. Ia Ia Cthulhu.”

The cultists took up the cry.

With a commanding gesture, Sloane silenced them. “Let the sacrifices begin,” he pronounced.

It was a ceremony blacker than the blackest mass. Thirteen virgins lost their virginity and then their lives.

The sky darkened and thunder rumbled.

“I hear their voices brethren,” Sloane cried. “'It is not enough,' they say. There must be more blood. As They command, so shall it be.”

And Sloane's fellow disciples willingly gave up their lives in the belief that it would unleash the Great Old Ones, those ancient alien gods from the Earth’s eldritch past that were inimical to mankind.

*     *     *

The man who opened the door was short and overweight. Florid faced and dressed in garishly coloured clothes.

“You!” bellowed Sloane.

“Me?”

“Yes you! You are Grant Burnell the astrologer?”

“Yes, love, I am. What can I do for you? Autograph is it?”

Sloane grabbed Burnell by his lapels.

“Ow! You're hurting,” the astrologer protested.

The cultist bundled Burnell back into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him.

Burnell cried, “Hey steady on! What do you think you're doing?”

“You wrote this?” Sloane thrust the newspaper at him, pointing at the astrology column.

“Yes I did.”

“False prophet!” shrieked Sloane.

“Come on now, love, that's a bit harsh.”

Sloane pointed to the entry for Aries, “You said the stars are right.”

“Hang on a minute.” Burnell put on his glasses. “Now let's have a look.” The astrologer quickly read the entry for Aries. “Yes I did; fancy that.”

“But the Old Ones did not return.”

“Old ones? What old ones? I didn't say anything about your grandparents now, did I? Look love, what goes in my column in the paper is very general. It doesn't apply to everyone; it can't really, can it? But for some people what I predict does come true, law of averages really I suppose. To be honest - mind you don't tell anyone I said this - it's just a bit of fun really. What you need is a personal reading. When were you born?”

“Charlatan! You did not even foresee your own fate,” Sloane snarled, plunging his sacrificial knife into the astrologer's ample belly.

The cold of the stone seeps through my jeans as I kneel on the floor. My hands resting on the tops of my thighs, palms skyward. Words of power issue from my mouth, their dark intonations sear the edges of my lips. Words the Jar showed me. Words burned into my mind through dreams. An ethereal light emanates from the Jar, bathing me in a green glow. Filling me with warmth, strengthening me for what is to come...

It was eight months ago that Dr. Curtis laid the invitation on my desk for the Dunsany Charity Auction. “Got one for you, Beth. I know you’ve been waiting for this.” He winked at me and smiled. As curator of the Ephraim Museum of Anthropology, Curtis had his ear to the ground for opportunities to procure antiquities. And old man Dunsany was more than just a mere collector. He had spent a small fortune funding digs in the
Valley of the Kings (among other places), inspecting the sites personally and claiming relics for his own. Curtis knew I’d been eyeing Dunsany’s collection for years. I wouldn’t pass this opportunity up for the world.

When I arrived at the Dunsany Estate the crowd was exactly what I’d expected. Wealthy entrepreneurs, art collectors, and anthropologists, along with the usual cast of rich socialites there more for the wine than anything else. I ignored them all and took a seat in the auction room. I wasn’t there to rub elbows. There were over a hundred items up for bid and Dr. Curtis had specified thirty he’d wanted for the museum. After two hours of this all day affair and three successful bids I got a thrill of excitement as the auctioneer announced... 

“...item number 47. The Canopic Jar of Aten-Hor, This exquisite vessel is said to have belonged to the most powerful high priest in the Twenty-Second Dynasty.” The ushers lifted the alabaster Jar out of its velvet-lined case and placed it on display. The lights around the stand revealed hieroglyphs carved down the front of the vessel with razor-like perfection. The jackal-headed lid was rendered almost lifelike, the eyes carved to appear to follow the viewer.

“According to Mr. Dunsany’s journal
, ‘Aten-Hor was a most beloved and feared holy man. The walls of his tomb speak of his traversing the underworld to consort with The Lord of the Dead. The brightly ornamented canopic box found behind a false wall states that Aten-Hor was entrusted as keeper of the sacred Jars containing the remains of a dead god that would be found within. If this were true, then he was a poor guardian indeed for there was only one Jar inside the box, its interior devoid of mummified remains. Its three brothers apparently were taken by grave robbers. They must have run into some guards or fought each other out of greed for rusted bloodstains paint the floor of the tomb beside the false wall.’

I pictured the scene of these ancient thieves fighting each other for the treasure. Blood spattering the walls in the lamplight and the remaining thief making off with whatever he could carry.

The auctioneer cleared his throat.  “Carved from a single piece of alabaster, the Jar of Aten-Hor was rendered with such skill and procession that the vessel is geometrically perfect. Its surface was polished to a glassy finish and the interior is unadorned.  The lid,” he motioned to the jackal head, “was rendered to represent Duamutef, son of Horus. The ancients believed that Duamutef guarded the stomach and upper intestines of the dead after mummification. While this container was found empty, it does, however, hold one secret that may lend to why the ancients considered Aten-Hor a magician.”

The auctioneer pulled out a large book light and dangled it inside the Jar. The room gasped. Against the glow a full color painting of the “Opening of the Mouth” ceremony shone through the bone-white stone. The green-skinned mummy of what appeared to be a pharaoh stood in his sarcophagus as the  jackal-headed Anubis, placed the ceremonial wand to the corpses lips. This ritual was a keystone to the Egyptian funerary rite for it allowed the dead to utter the spells necessary to continue to the afterlife. 

This was an amazing find! No wonder Dr. Curtis placed it at the top of his list! My hands tightened around my placard in anticipation, ready for the bidding to begin.

“We shall start the bid at $25,000,” the auctioneer said, then struck his gavel. Before I could call out a gentleman in front had his placard in the air. The auctioneer pointed to him, “$25,000! Do I hear thirty?!”

I raised my placard.

“Yes, thirty! Do I hear thirty-five?”

Another bid, then another, then another still. I countered them all. Finally, at sixty-five thousand dollars the hall had gone silent. Then...

“$100,000!” The man in front announced, rising to his feet. He was tall, ebony skinned and wore a black Armani suit that was tailored to accent his lean frame.

Bastard!
I silently cursed and stood up. I wouldn’t give it up. Not this close! “$110,000!”

The moment I said it I felt the weight of his dark eyes. “$120,000” he said smoothly, and smiled.

I balled my fists and glared back. “$130,000!”

“$150,000.”

“$175,000.” At that moment, money meant nothing to me. The Jar would be mine, no matter what the cost.

“$175,000 going once.” The auctioneer called out. The room was silent. The man in black stopped smiling.

“Going Twice.” The man sat down, and I let out the breath I was holding.

“Sold! To number 27 for $175,000!”

The crack of the gavel sounded.
The Jar was mine!
As I watched as they packed The Jar back in its velvet-lined box reality came crashing in. I just spent $175,000! What was I thinking! That was almost three fourths my budget! At the call for intermission I hurried onto the terrace. I needed a drink and time to think. I grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray the took out my phone. The museum’s remaining credit with the auction read $10,000. Crap! I was so screwed. I downed the champagne, took a deep breath and began a text.

Curtis, I just…

“Excuse me, Miss Stanton,” someone said from the crowd.

“Yes? I’m a little busy.” I said, not bothering to look up. I didn’t have time to care. I had my job to think about, and Curtis was going to kill me.

“My name is Nathanial Hotep,” the voice continued. “I have traveled a long way to retrieve the Canopic Jar of Aten-Hor.” His voice was lightly accented, but I could not place from where. I hit “send” and looked up. The gentleman from the auction room was looking down at me. He was quite handsome, with high cheekbones and a firm chin. His smile was friendly, but unnerving. “Mr. Dunsany stole this Jar from its rightful owner. It is imperative that it be returned to Egypt, and soon.”

Maybe it was the wine but I couldn’t help myself from saying, “Forgive me, but this is sounding like a ‘there is a curse’ speech.” I chuckled.

“Mr. Dunsany disturbed the gods when he stole the Jar. It is not meant for the uninitiated, or the unworthy. I have come to take it back and I will pay generously for it.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a leather bill fold. It was filled with traveler’s checks in $50,000 dollar denominations. “$750,000. This will allow you to purchase many other treasures for your museum. Perhaps that ivory Senate table.” He said.

I bit my lower lip as I stared at the checks. “If you had so much then why did you allow me to win?”

“I’ve seen that look of desire in men’s eyes before. If the bidding had continued, you would have sacrificed everything you own to attain the Jar of Aten-Hor. This way, you are at least considering my offer, are you not?”

He read me completely. A few moments ago I was willing to bid it all in order to procure the Jar for the museum. No. For myself. But now the rush that possessed me was gone. Only a cold void remained. Part of me ached at the thought of losing my prize, but there was my career to consider. I looked at the billfold wishing there was some other way. I opened my mouth to speak when my phone announced a text.

You’re not the first to lose it on an auction. That’s why I budget for these things. $100,000 has been added to your account. : ) -C

My credit account now read $110,000 and I smiled. Curtis wasn’t angry, and I could keep The Jar. I looked up to meet Nathanial’s gaze. A smile on my face. “Thank you for your offer Mr. Hotep, but the Jar belongs to the museum now.”

He shrugged, as if it was no big deal and put the wallet back in his coat. “If that is your wish. But keep my offer in mind.” He gave a slight bow and faded into the crowd.

*     *     *

In the months to follow all I could think about was the Jar. Even on my days off I stayed late to study it. I knew every feature, every vein in its stone. I knew every inch of the painted ceremony and the strange hieroglyphs that surrounded the scene. They were unlike anything I had every scene before, especially the cryptic cartouche denoting the dead god’s name. These symbols were an amazing discovery, career-making even. Colleagues I reached out to at other museums and institutions were just as stumped as I was on what these symbols meant or the identity of the mummified god was whom I had first mistaken for Osiris.

But the most peculiar aspect of the painting was found on the far side of the Jar, something I had not seen at the auction. Two strange birds perched on a pillar were watching the ceremony. Under normal circumstances I would take them for the duel aspects of the Egyptian myth of the soul, the ba and the ka. Traditionally the twin birds were shown with the heads of the dead man they came from. But these had no heads at all. Instead, out of the birds’ necks sprouted sea anemone like creatures. Their tendrils appeared to be made of dog tongues, and crocodile teeth.
What did this mean?

Late one night as I was in my office attempting to identify these creatures a hand touched my shoulder. I let out a gasp, then a little chuckle. I thought it was Dr. Curtis. “Don’t do that! You... ” I turned and found myself staring into the dark eyes of Nathanial Hotep. He seemed amused by my surprise.

“Apologies, I did not mean to startle you.”

“How did you get down here?” I said, annoyed. “This area is restricted.”

“I am allowed access.” He said cryptically, his gaze moved to the Jar on the table. “I see you have already begun prying into the secrets of the Jar of Aten-Hor.” His gaze locked onto mine and I felt the weight of it beat down on me. “I urge you to reconsider my offer Ms. Stanton. This relic does not belong to you, and I can offer other things besides money to take its place.”

“No, it belongs to me... to the museum.” I snapped.  My vision narrowed on him until all I could see were those dark eyes.

“I understand. You’re only human. It is hard to part with such a treasure.”

“The decision is not mine to…” I said weakly. It was hard to talk… to think. What was happening to me? Those eyes. I was getting lost in those eyes.

“Oh but it is.” He took a step forward. His hand outstretched. “You must be the one to give it to me.”

I turned away. The head of the Jar looked up at me from the work table, glaring. I felt pulled towards its stony gaze and away from Nathaniel Hotep. My vision went red. Before I passed out I thought I heard myself say, “The decision has been made.”

*     *     *

I awoke sitting at my desk with the taste of burnt copper in my mouth. I found the Jar beside me, my arms wrapped tightly around it. Nathanial was gone. Was it just a dream? I couldn’t tell. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and placed the Jar back under the lamp. I was just about to reach for my coffee mug when I saw it. The painting had changed. The dead god no longer was in his sarcophagus but was now lying on the preparation table. Mummers were wrapping him in linen and Anubis held the scarab talisman to be placed over his heart. The hieroglyphs had changed too. No, this was too unreal. This can’t be the same Jar. I stood up, suddenly furious. Nathaniel must have taken it and left this in its place as a substitute.

But no… the veins in the stone were the same, the coloring, the carvings. It WAS the same Jar! I furiously began taking notes, picking up the phone to call Curtis, Nathanial Hotep forgotten.

For nearly two months I did not leave the museum. I barely ate and when I slept it was on a cot in my basement office. I couldn’t be away from the Jar. Something was happening to it. To me. The image changed twice more at the peak of the full moon. Each time depicting another step of the mummification process, but in reverse order. With the help of a university in
New England I was able to uncover the identity of the dead god.

He was Khephren the Undying. He had once been a pharaoh and ruled all the lands of
Egypt. But after his death, a cult of worshipers formed and spread. They were apparently a dangerous cult and were driven from Egypt. They called him the lord of those who cannot find their way to the afterlife. The Lord of the Dead. Could Aten-Hor have been a member of this cult? Is that why he had the Jars? The words from Dunsany’s journal came back to me, along with images of the fate of the tomb robbers and the other Jars.

At night my dreams were plagued by horrid visions. The glint of obsidian blades in lamplight. The flutter of wings. The smell of blood and natron. A spectral tongue lolling over ivory teeth and words of power chanted from unseen mouths. They reverberated in my skull till I would wake up drenched in sweat, chanting the words with them.